The Price Of Evil
by IceColdTrickster
Summary: His heart is torn into pieces. Loki's fall haunts him, over and over again. Thor's sapphire blue eyes, once inspiring joy and safety, do no longer flicker. His agonizing core is killing him slowly. Yet, there is hope. A tender name for a sweet flower, blossoming within our deepest fears. [Brotherly story, no love included !]
1. Soreness

I want to thank heartily, with all my heart, Alydia Rackham. Her stories, "Fallen Star" and "Lokistone" made me want to write, and changed my life. So, Alydia, if you're reading this, thank you. So much.

I'm happy, thanks to you.

* * *

"...You should love something while you have it,

Love it fully and without reservation,

Even if you know you'll lose it someday.

We lose everything.

If you're trying to avoid loss,

There's no point in taking another breath,

Or letting your heart beat one more time.

It all ends.

That's all life is.

Breathing in, breathing out.

The space between two breaths."

― _Unteachable,_ Leah Raeder

* * *

Stupendous and substantial gold towers, whose polished and refined surface shines brightly, offer a soothing and shimmering radiance in Asgard's nightfall. Remains of glorious eras, those edifices keep on reminding every eye the prestige, dexterity and deftness of Asgardian manufacturers, sculptors and, unmistakably, of a few sorcerers. Above the antediluvian buildings, extending to the whole outer-space, unfolds a majestic, breathtaking and peerless sky, pinpricked by a million ethereal stars. Gossamer constellations, twinkling through fusions of nuanced nebulae shaded in cerulean blue, cinnamon red, orchid purple and gold, confer a sumptuous and uncommon spectacle. The atmosphere fades within the outer space. Nevertheless, and as inconceivable as it sounds, notwithstanding the cosmos' dark abyss spreading upon the Real Eternal, Asgard is granted with a solar cycle, similar yet a bit slower than Midgard's. Dawns and dusks simultaneously rouse and lull the ageless souls dwelling here.

Below the celestial roof and the gigantic towers, lies the All-Father's mythical throne room. The golden ground is engraved with multiple patterns, subtle and convoluted, crisscrossing towards lustrous stairs, surrounding an amount on top of which rises, masterfully hewn in an iridescent gold, the throne of Asgard. The cautious-fingered smiths' work is undoubtedly a masterpiece: around the polished seat spread skillfully-carved armrests, and above it symmetrically evolve two arm-like horns, on which are commonly perched Huginn and Muninn, Odin's ravens.

Yet, The Father of the World is nowhere in sight, nor are his jet-black crows. Tonight, the kingly vastness is oddly noiseless.

Though, a sharp ear could effortlessly perceive muffled, far off voices slicing through the silence. If one wanders a little, the distant voices become more and more audible. Tonight, takes place an immense feast, tables dispatched in every corner of the Giant Hall. The grand Hall, whose ancient yet cumbersome columns engraved with antique runes widen its depths and heights, glows with an unmatched resplendence. Its lengthy paths, surrounded by huge marble statues, relics of bygone times, are crowded with cheering Asgardians, relishing good victuals, giggling and laughing wholeheartedly, dancing and pacing arm in arm. The Hall is overcrowded. The merry, buoyant atmosphere testifies a long-forgotten peace newly recovered.

Amid laughter, a mild and soft tranquility reigns in the close dim light.

A massive table at the very end of the room stands out from the others. The Royal Table. Its polished mahogany surface seems to sparkle beneath abundant food trays. Roast chicken, full plates of luscious vegetables – carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and Asgardian wine's aromas permeate the atmosphere, titillating hungry bellies and quivering nostrils. Forks and knives rattle against silver plates, hands hurry toward glasses of liquor, thunderous and warm laughs explode.

The King, from the regal reddish-brown table, gratifies his clan with a fatherly smile. But his eye is bereft of any joy. At his right side sits Frigga, her long and glowing hair hanging loose behind her back. Despite her elegant stature, she seems broken. Her eyelids blink frantically, and a bitter smile creeps over her lips. Vainly trying but failing to regain her self-control, she finds herself unable to stop her hands from shaking. The Goddess lets her weak fingers fall open, struggling hard not to burst into sobs. The All-Father's hand grabs her left one, gently squeezing it.

This is not the most painful sight.

Absentmindedly toying with a knife at the left side of Odin, Thor is beyond bored. Truth to be told, having his family and friends does not bring him any comfort or consolation whatsoever. Food isn't even tempting. He slowly turns his livid face toward his parents. Azure orbs stare at their entwined fingers. His jaw tightening, he abruptly adverts his eyes to avoid his mother's moist gaze. He brings a calloused hand up to his mouth, rubbing his rough cheek. His head is throbbing. He shuts his eyes, hoping the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him entirely to oblivion.

Seconds elapse.

It is _not_. The corners of his lips start quivering.

Opening his eyes, water scalding his sight, it merely takes a second for his weary body to recover motion. He abruptly stands up, incessant scorching questions devouring his mind. The knife falls to the ground in a thud. Feeling first a drop of regret for being so egoistic toward people who plainly needed to decompress, it is quickly quashed by the resentment he feels boiling in his very entrails as they scrutinize him with poor empathy. But what exactly is he hoping to achieve by behaving so? When did he become so… weak? Closing his hands into white-knuckled fists, he feels a violent eruption menacingly heading toward him. He must get out.

_Now._

"_Thor…!_" The imploring ton in Frigga's shattered call almost makes him stop. Thor's heart contracts, and, without glancing back nor uttering a single word, he starts leaving the table. Setting nervously his steps with purpose, he paces toward the doors, his crimson cape slightly wavering behind his back.

* * *

From the way Thor is half-heartedly gazing at his unspoiled plate, it isn't difficult to see how absolutely anomalous this situation is. Food is, and has always been, inherent to his nature. Sitting a dozen places from him, catching stealth glimpses, even she is apt to notice the soreness clouding his turquoise gaze. Customarily holding an exalted and candid flicker of light, his eyes do no longer assert any glee. It hurts to assimilate the fact that he might never sincerely and heartily laugh again. As his head rotates toward the All-Father and the Queen, loneliness seems creeping over him.

Finding herself unable to suppress a shred of pity for him, Sif feels a knot of shame solidify in her insides. For the first time of his lengthy life, it is obvious that he craves for company. Not a friend, nor a comrade; but a shoulder to cry upon. She keeps forgetting that, no matter how mighty he is, how untouchable he seems to be, the Prince of Asgard cannot always be zealous or fearless. Even she, valorously educated and disciplined to cope with life's disorders and pains, must confront her own flaws and weaknesses.

She_ can_ understand his woe.

Yet, anytime she tries to converse with Thor, words die on her flapping tongue. Such a pathetic friend she is. Such an impotent comrade. Such an unavailing shoulder to cry upon.

His behavior does not ease the task. Since his brother's fall, five days ago… Thor was eluding her, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun. His father. Even his mother. Locking himself in a keyless cocoon, he was growing sore. Depressed.

But she _cannot_ blame him.

No matter how much she despises his brother, she wishes the Trickster was still here. As unfathomable as the brothers' relation is, and despite their lack of blood ties –how _disturbing_, she couldn't believe it, she knows that, beneath their rivalry lies a deep affection for each other. At least, coming from Thor.

Peeking at his surly face, she feels her heart miss a beat. Several days have elapsed… Just how many pounds has he lost?

The trail of her thoughts evaporates as Thor gets up all of a sudden. Emotions flicker through his sapphire eyes, and her body stiffens as she recognizes… hatred? Sif sucks in a deep breath she has without realizing it been holding, a jerky whiff escaping her contracted lungs in a rush. Worried glances –Volstagg's, Fendral's and Hogun's, creep over her taut face, and she suddenly hates herself for being so stupid. Of course.

He is utterly alone. Far beyond aloneness.

Of course hatred would gnaw his broken heart in front of people unable to understand.

_Do not misjudge him_, a voice mutters in her mind. _It is hard for him_. _He is trapped in his own misery_.

She discerns his heavy footsteps behind her back, hastening toward the Grand Hall's massive entrance. With a deafening bang of shutting doors, the entire realm trembles. It is three seconds later than she recovers motion from her limbs.

_Go find him. _

She doesn't hesitate anymore.

* * *

Hello everyone ! I truly hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I'm rather stressed, for it is my first published story !  
I decided to put this note at the end of the chapter to confess you one thing : English is not my native tongue. I feared it could make you leave, so I decided to tell you at the end of it. But now, I would very much like to know if it's awful... Be honest, because I'm trying my best to write correctly.  
The 2nd chapter will come soon !  
Goodnight, and thanks for reading, if you have. ~


	2. Broken Souls

Hello everyone ! ~  
First, I would like to thank you for the reviews. I literally jumped like a rabbit, it was a little bit weird.  
I'm sorry the 2nd chapter took so long, it is rather difficult to write and I prefer taking my time and give you a better piece of work than hurrying and probably give you something rather bad. Normally, the next chapter will be the last. Normally.  
I hope this one will please you ! And tell me if something goes wrong with what I wrote. (mistakes, confusions...)  
Also, if I may; if you like music when reading, I advise you Demons, by Imagine Dragons, and Every Night by Imagine Dragons too. (such a great band!)

* * *

"It's so hard to forget pain

But it's even harder

To remember sweetness.

We have no scar

to show for happiness.

We learn so little

from peace."

-_Chuck Palahniuk_

* * *

The warm temperature of the Hall vanished as he set a foot outside, substituted by a frosting breeze, gradually growing teeth and ruthlessly gnashing at his skin. Thor's nerves instantly eased up.

Blowing out a crestfallen breath, Thor flippantly beheld it evaporate into an icy cloud-like steam, vehemently rubbing his palms together. His right hand, bereft of Mjöllnir's secure handle, felt weird.

Drawing near a huge pillar, he allowed his strained body a pause, and gazed at the vastness of space unfolding before his azure eyes. He absentmindedly stared at the beaming stars he once contemplated late at night with Loki, as young and intrepid boys. When they still were two inseparable souls.

An aching rush of nostalgia bloomed in his chest, the memory of his brother's verdant and once merry gaze prompting an ascent of burning droplets beneath his eyelashes.

Heavily swallowing back his bile, Thor dimly jiggled his numb head, in a desperate attempt to fight back a threatening nausea. He felt so feeble.

The dark white-speckled sky somewhat soothed his dizziness. The velvet blackness sprinkled with vivid galactic dusts, whose stars he had incessantly been told to memorize, poured some childhood remembrances within his head. As a child, Loki was already able to enumerate all the stars without exception, improving a noteworthy learning ability, whilst he was wholly and solely driven by the appetite to learn how to fight. How boorish.

Yet, these golden memories did not appease the torpidity infiltrating his body, bitten by reality's sharp fangs. Something was sharply severing his core, slicing through his heart, scattering it into little icy shards.

Now Thor realized how _obvious_ things have been all along.

His brother's nativity, stories about his birth, how moving –according to Frigga's words- bearing him into her belly has been, their rightful equality regarding the throne… all were nothing but lies. Thereby it elucidated the everlasting mystery surrounding Loki's pure talent concerning magic, whereas most Aesir were only fated to hold swords and shields.

Though, what made him uncontrollably stoke a wild rage against his parents –although there was obviously no doubt their lie was solely a matter of protection-…

…was to imagine Loki figuring out all of this.

Imagine his eyes screeching with soreness and misery, desperately withholding his cracked core to once and for all fissure.

Thor fully knew Loki failed.

As himself poorly failed.

His shoulders straightened. His stomach boiled with a white-hot wrath.

He could have been there. He could have shared a shoulder for his brother's resentful tears. He could have securely embraced Loki's broken frame until his rebellious and ravaged mind recognizes he was _not_, and will _never _be lonesome or different. No matter what blood flowed through his veins.

A bitter smile crept over his lips. Asgard was bereft of Thor's presence as he was purging his brutishness on Midgard, the fateful day the All-Father sorely avowed Loki's lack of blood ties.

Smile fading, Thor pursed his thin-lipped mouth.

_No._ He could not blame Loki for overreacting as he had. Despite what his brother did to him, -lying about their father's death, sending the Destroyer to slay him…- Thor surprisingly regretted the anger he has brought upon him. What was the point in feeling so? It is that kind of omission and foolishness that had him being blinded by ire towards the Trickster. Omission of the excruciating treason that lied deep within Loki's torn and gaping soul.

Some assumed his own forgiveness was weak-mindedness, nay an idiocy unworthy of him. That Loki utterly deserved his fate. Thor had to clench his hands into white-knuckled fists to avoid being involved into an unfortunate massacre. He was well aware of the risks he was taking. Conscious of how irrecoverable would the fall be if he was deprived of the Asgardians' faithfulness and belief they put upon him… the legitimate heir of Asgard's throne. A withered chorus. He chuckled wryly.

Was he _still_ worthy? It felt odd, slightly wrong on his lips.

Yet, something remained unharmed.

He could _feel_ it.

Brotherly affection still lingered in his heart. Nothing, _nothing,_ will ever dislodge it from him.

And its prize was _far more_ _valuable_ than any regal seat.

Blond lashes fluttered against strong cheekbones as a gust of wind roared.

Nonetheless, unending questions, whose answers remained undiscovered, persisted, seething within his brain. He was frightened. The uncertainty of his… survival. Dry throat tugged as he tried to gulp his saliva, a leaden pressure contracting his ribcage.

Thor gathered his thoughts, and inhaled deeply. Another flurry inflated his crimson cape.

The God of Thunder suddenly found himself utterly drawn by the sight of what, he knew, –as each of his bones grinded with an instinctive anticipation- was an ireful upcoming storm. The dark sky rumbled. Gradually covered with high, thick clouds, stars vanished.

His cerulean pupils got caught by an intense, remaining glitter in the hazy darkness of Asgard. A L-shaped disposal of iridescent pinpricks sparkled above his head, irradiant and peculiarly… _familiar. _

The world seemed to lag for a second. Everything slightly blurred anew. However… _This was highly familiar._

Brain cogitation carved deep lines into his forehead. A tenacious fog desperately clung to his memories.

This… _constellation_ of sorts was not stretching over the sky yesterday. Nor the previous days. He would have distinctly caught sight of it, no matter how helpless he was concerning… cosmology? Yes,_ cosmology_. Truth be told, he had to admit he _**was **__completely helpless_ : it was not an issue of knowledge, the constellation was just hard to miss.

_Did it just appear? _he wondered. His thinking was deep enough to settle uncertainty into his mind.

Whatever. He had no explanation. And he did not care about having one.

Strangely enough, Thor felt an unexpected hint of… _peacefulness _blossoming deep within his core, its soothing embrace warmly wrapping up all his being.

_Where is this feeling coming from?_ he pondered.

As to silently answer him, -or shut his mouth?- a leaf crashed onto his face.

"Stupid thing!" Thor grumbled, his hand angrily throwing it away.

A raindrop coolly collapsed on his forehead, promptly followed by others. Grunting, he nonetheless found himself unable to suppress a derisive smirk; climate was as impetuous as hi…

_See that L-shaped constellation? We should go back inside. _

A soft, barely audible murmur caressed Thor's tympanums, yet it was –as ironic as it sounded- as being struck by lightning. Eyes widening, he held his breath, taking no heed of the rain, fearing the sough to fade out.

_It announces a violent climate change, as impetuous as you_, _brother!_

Thor felt his heart drop like lead. His blood ran cold.

Green juvenile eyes. An unique elocution, words purposefully picked.

"Your…" Thor huffed loudly, his lips parted. "_Our_ constellation! I…" Pictures flashed before his eyes like a mad kaleidoscope. Loki and him. Seated here, precisely where he stood. Young, chubby-cheeked Thor and sharp-eyed Loki.

"I remember," a dim whisper escaped his lungs. "Brother."

Thor fell down to the damp golden ground. Rain intensified, mercilessly infiltrating his clothes until he was soaked to the bone. The bulwarks he managed to strengthen around his feeble heart caved in.

A single tear lengthily rolled over his cheek, fell into the puddle he bathed in, expiated its filth. Thor squeezed his eyes shut, a solaced flicker softening his features. He could feel it in his gut.

His brother was _alive._

And unpredicted feminine hands tenderly wrapped up his upper arms.

The constellation twinkled even brighter.

* * *

Hesitation still gnawed her courage.

Such incapacity completely eluded her understanding.

Caulked into penumbra, unwillingly motionless, Sif stood a few meters behind the God of Thunder, a venomous apprehension stealthily sliding through her veins. What _exactly_ was wrong with her? For some abstract, nonsensical reasons, her body flatly refused to execute a single move, regardless of her mind struggle, articulations akin rusted gears.

Hazel, coy pupils peeked at the tall silhouette.

Thor was seemingly unaware of her presence.

Sif could behold the back of his blonde hair and scarlet wavering cape as he airily headed toward a towering pier.

Whilst he shook his head and gazed at the purity of the flawless stygian night sky, her sharp eyes caught sight of a watery flutter of blond eyelashes. A cold stone dropped into her stomach. Oddly enough, a languid, unexpected grip grasped her heart with consuming, yet delicate claws. A sultry pressure somewhat obstructed her lungs, and she found herself heavily panting. A white-hot desire itched deep within her core; she craved, _pathologically_ needed to touch him. Take hold of his long, strong fingers, and _never_ release them. His hands, unreachable, far, far away from hers.

In the space of a second, droplets impulsively welled from the corners of her lids, spreading over her tender cheeks.

_Tears?_ She startled. Coming from her, a theoretically _unyielding_ warrior?

_Yes_, Sif thought bitterly. A proud, sturdy and valorous warrior, doomed to perennially contemplate her own eternal essence slid between her fingertips… The one she deemed laudable and worthy enough already belonged to someone else.

This myriad of years has though taught her something. A widespread yet scarce -when truthful- _commodity_ that enveloped and solaced any ache efflorescing deep within her soul's confines.

_Friendship_. Unalterable when sustained.

This is one thing she was resolute to _shield. _One thing whose end she will never allow to occur. Even if it meant excruciating pain.

An ultimate drop vanished in the corner of her lip. Steadying her erratic heartbeats, her arms stiff along her body, Sif squeezed a pair of brown eyes shut, relishing an abrupt flurry on her skin. Skin curiously warm, despite the chilly climate.

A few seconds elapsed. Gathering the ragged remnants of her dignity, she hastened a step forward.

She halted. Her lengthy hair furiously entangled as an impulsive razor-sharp blast of air hissed amid them. Thor seemed utterly mesmerized by a point in the firmament. Vainly attempting to tuck her stubborn strands behind her ears, she bent her head and caught sight of it.

A resplendent constellation, tenaciously twinkling through the thick and cloudy atmosphere.

An archaic shade of a reminiscence flashed before her eyes. It meant…

_Loki, are you…? _

Hard to believe. But seemingly true.

"Stupid thing!"

Thor's rage was palpable as he grabbed something off his front and vehemently tossed it. She could nearly feel his worried wrath tickling her fingertips, lingering on her frame, wrapping her up wholly.

An unforeseen overflow of cool rain driblets befell on Asgard.

Sif arched raven brows. Such climate changes were unusual.

"Your… Our constellation! I…" Thor's hoarse voice cut through the thick moistness. "I remember. Brother."

His leather-clad knees heavily collapsed on the damp soil.

Buoyed by a mysterious thrust, Sif came within reach of his touch.

He was startlingly not taken aback.

Enfolding him with her hands, she softly muttered the words he couldn't bring himself to voice, as if crystallizing them out loud would crack the delicate glass wall behind which lied his hopefulness.

"He is _alive_, Thor."

* * *

The fall from the Bifröst had left his body completely broken. The ground under him was tough, covered in a thin layer of dust, and, as he opened and lifted a pair of verdant eyes toward the firmament, he knew exactly where he was.

Midgard. _Those little pathetic mortals' realm!_

A sudden boiling rage spread out from Loki's chest to bloom in his dry throat. His broken limbs were ablaze, consumed by a scorching hatred.

A loathe towards the All-Father and the Queen. Towards Asgard.

Towards _Thor_.

Their white lies mercilessly gnawed at his core.

Blowing out a heavy breath, he ineffectively fluttered his lashes to remain conscious.

Darkness eventually cloaked his infuriated mind, immersing the God of Mischief into a restless sleep.


End file.
